


The Silent War

by DarknessBreathing (Breath4Soul)



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: All Is Fair in Love and War, Attempted Seduction, BAMF John, Captain John Watson, Dark John, Dark John Watson, Discussion of masochism, Discussion of sadism, F/M, Heterosexual John, John falls for Sherlock, M/M, Pre and Post Reichenbach, Psychological Warfare, Psychopath in Love, Sexual Violence, Sherlock Is A Bit Not Good, Sherlock is a Tease, lovesick loose cannon, morally questionable, sexual games, this is war, weaponized sexuality
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-10-02
Updated: 2016-10-02
Packaged: 2018-08-08 13:43:09
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 8,865
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7760029
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Breath4Soul/pseuds/DarknessBreathing
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <b>There has been a silent war between Sherlock and John since they first met. Sherlock has been subjecting the soldier to a type of psychological warfare, a subtle game of seduction. It's all fun and games until someone gets hurt. When Sherlock returns from his faked death John decides to end this war once and for all.</b>
</p><blockquote>
  <p><i>‘Not gay’</i> John had asserted at least ten times in their first week together, and Sherlock had seemed to take that as a challenge He made it his mission to slyly wage a silent war against that one fundamental truth of John.</p>
</blockquote>
            </blockquote>





	1. War of Attrition

**Author's Note:**

  * For [celesteal](https://archiveofourown.org/users/celesteal/gifts).



John would not define himself a _sadist._ He doesn't take _pleasure_ in hurting people in general. He has never minded hurting, even killing, people that _deserve it,_ like insurgents in the army or the murdering, low-life criminals that they'd encountered solving crimes. But it had always been a sense of duty and morality underpinnings his actions, _not_ a blood lust. 

However, in his darker hours, he had accepted that he might well be a bit of a _masochist;_ someone that enjoys _receiving pain_. One would have to be in order to live with _(and fall in love with)_ Sherlock Holmes. Humiliation, degradation and psychological warfare were par for the course with Sherlock. 

To a certain degree his upbringing, with his difficult childhood, and the conditioning from superiors once he was in the army had prepared John for it, but in other ways nothing could really prepare him for the unique torture that was Sherlock. 

In the case of John, Sherlock didn't go after weaknesses. Too common. _Dull._ John knew all his own vulnerabilities and Sherlock could poke his fingers into those old wounds all day long and the ex-soldier would hardly flinch. That would _never do._ So Sherlock relentlessly chipped away at the one thing John took efforts to make irreproachable from the start, his sexuality. 

_‘Not gay’_ John had asserted at least ten times in their first week together, and Sherlock had seemed to take that as a challenge. He made it his mission to slyly wage a silent war against that one fundamental truth of John.

John didn't mind this subversive game of cat and mouse. There seemed little harm in it. He was secure in his sexuality and, in spite of Sherlock’s best efforts at sabotage, he managed to outplay the man enough to get a leg over with women on a fairly consistent basis. The psychological warfare, the attempted seduction by subtle manipulation, kept things interesting and challenging. 

He didn't flatter himself. He was enough of a realist to recognize that, rather than any special attraction, it was in some part the convenience of his proximity and in another the difficulty of the pursuit that made him the target of the mad genius who, to be honest, had lots of other options. The suave git could have had just about anyone else he set his mind on if it was just about sex. No, this was about the game, the battle, the desire to win in a good, scrappy row, which was one character flaw that John could hardly fault him for as he was just as guilty of it from time to time. 

The truth was, cured of his limp, it might appear that he tolerated the banality of civilian life better than Sherlock but he suffered no less when there was no case on and life became too _normal._ Being pursued by Sherlock kept the ex-soldier on his toes. It was a welcome distraction that prevented his mind from slipping back into those haunting memories and dark thoughts that crept up on him in the quiet hours - things he'd rather keep buried. 

He could always count on Sherlock to instigate a fight or provide plenty of fodder to easily pick one when John desperately needed to avoid things getting too quiet or comfortable around Baker Street. It was an odd arrangement; a perfectly demented symbiosis for two decidedly imperfect men. Sherlock got to run his little psychological experiment when he was bored and John shouted and snarled when he could bare no more of the suffocating confines of civilian life. They both got what they wanted and could handle what the other dealt out. 

_No one really got hurt._

Sherlock’s game was all subtle, low key stuff anyhow. Nothing overblown, aggressive or that interfered too much with daily living. Just little, progressive, predatory grooming techniques; testing John's tolerance and boundaries. 

Sherlock probably thought the doctor didn't notice or excused many of these things as eccentricities, but John was always more perceptive than he let on. His strategy was simple. If the detective was going to order him to fetch a phone out of the breast pocket of the suit he was currently wearing as a subtle method of asserting dominance while forcing the soldier to touch him in a more intimate way than appropriate between two platonic mates, John intended to get his digs in by being a bit rougher than necessary or pinching a sensitive area so Sherlock would think better of doing such things next time. Sherlock waged his quiet war of attrition, trying to wear John down whereas John struck down his moves and waited for the mad genius to lose interest and get bored with the futility of trying to seduce the clearly heterosexual ex-soldier. Such was the nature of their silent war.

It was pretty much an even match, move and counter-move... until things went awry during John’s holiday with Sarah. 

__________________

Life had been intense with Sherlock the previous two weeks as the mad genius toyed with John mercilessly. Following the confrontation with Moriarty at the pool, the anxiety the detective felt apparently called for epic levels of distraction or perhaps there was a need to claim victory in _some_ arena. As usual, John bore the brunt of the detectives foul moods. This time it played out as a sudden escalation in Sherlock's attempt to win their war. Therefore, John eagerly embraced the opportunity to have a break to relax with Sarah and finally consummate their long, on-again/off-again courtship.

However, he found his mind kept drifting back to Sherlock and the little moments he orchestrated to challenge John's boundaries; invading John's personal space, more frequent lingering touches, faffing about in nothing but silk pants and his robe, and casually fellating twenty cigarettes at once were among some of the more overt acts.

John tried to focus on enjoying the quiet scenery and the lovely company. He told himself that it was just the increasing stress of these incidents that kept bringing his mind round to them. However truth be told, as nice as Sarah was, she seemed terribly _boring_ in comparison to the heat of crackling tension and thrill of danger always present with Sherlock.

 _Almost anyone would_. He was a soldier at heart and his treacherous mind _missed the battle._

On the second afternoon, after a day of progressively suggestive touches and warm, intimate moments he'd taken a romantic walk with Sarah. He had kissed, always a skilled kisser, it soon became heated and they had fallen into bed and John quickly was at last pulling moans of pleasure out of the flaxen-haired nurse. 

John had her on her back, luxuriating in watching the way she bounced when he snapped into her with increasing vigor. He could feel the heat and tension building towards climax, His brain awash in adrenaline and that intoxicating chemical cocktail sex brings. He was lost in the moment trying to curse and say something encouraging; perhaps both _“Shit”_ and _“Sarah, love”_ at the same time, but it all jumbled together and came out as a passionately growled, “Sherlock!” 

He was as surprised as Sarah, but he was so close to the edge that he kept thrusting into her, chasing that release that he so desperately needed after the agonizing sexual tension of the past few weeks. He pressed his eyes closed so he didn’t have to see her horrified expression, but that only left room in the darkness behind his closed eyes for it to become Sherlock’s body spread beneath him. 

John was instantly enraged at the invading vision smirking up at him; those too plump lips smugly quirked and those inescapably sharp and knowing eyes taunting him. He drove into that vision of Sherlock harder, pounding almost violently with forceful snaps of his hips. He was furious and his body was his only weapon to strike back against the visage. Those cold, challenging eyes just stared up at him placidly. Those pale, haunting features were arranged in an almost bored, impassive expression as if there was nothing John could possibly do now to affect him. His fingers dug into hips with bruising force and his face twisted in an angry snarl as he raged against his conqueror.... but the damage was _not_ done against its _intended target_. As he came in a roaring fury, Sarah was screaming... not quite in pleasure anymore. 

As one might expect, the holiday got cut short after that.

___________________

When he returned, John couldn’t tell if Sherlock observed everything about the awful experience on him but he felt the guilt, shame, anger and frustration of it hanging heavily on his soul. 

Initially, he was furious at Sherlock. However, as he let the defeat settle into his bones he realized it was worse yet. With that single barrier gone John's subjugation was more complete than he ever anticipated. It was that, _only that_ , his certainty that he could never be with a man, that had prevented him from seeing what everyone else clearly could. What he felt for his companion was so close to love that now there could be no distinction. Loyalty, commitment, protectiveness, fondness; what internal barriers kept them firmly on the side of friendship and service were annihilated with Sherlock’s siege upon his sexuality. There was nothing left between him and the man. 

He was gone on Sherlock Holmes and he despised it.

Sherlock’s moves continued to become increasingly overt. John was disarmed and demoralized now. With the psychological war already lost, his defense against the constant barrage of Sherlock's advances was only the thinnest armor of anger. It was only a matter of time before the mad genius pushed past it and moved in for the kill; taking the rest of his mind, then his body.

It loomed over him like a menacing shadow forever stalking him. It was going to happen. Sherlock would lay claim the victor's prize.

He considered just packing up and walking away but John Watson is not a man that runs away from his battles - even ones he is doomed to lose. 

In the dark hours of the night, as John lay awake in his bed listening to the notes of Sherlock’s violin music drift up to him as a dark and seductive siren call; the march of an advancing army in its undertones, John decided he had no intention of going quietly into the dark night. He would _rage_. 

He didn't like hurting people that didn't deserve it. Sherlock had made him hurt Sarah. Sarah did _not_ deserve to be hurt like that, and now… well, Sherlock was going to get _exactly_ what he deserved. 

He would be damned before he gave himself over to a cold, heartless conqueror. He would _not_ politely lay down for his utter devastation. He was not _surrendered_ , he was _captured against his will_ and so he would continue fighting in what feeble way he could in spite of the damage. 

If he wanted to conquer John, the ex-soldier would show him what battle was _really like_. He would bring all his resources to this fight and he would make sure that Sherlock burned in the same fires that had taken him. When Sherlock took him it was going to be more than the genius bargained for. It would be bloody. It would bruise and scar. 

John might not have a choice in falling for the man but he intended to love him viciously, ferociously, until they were both broken. There would be a cost to winning this war; greater than Sherlock ever anticipated. **Debellatio:** absolute destruction of both combatants. 

If he was to be swallowed whole he would make the serpent choke on his feast. 

Inside him grew a twisted anticipation for Sherlock's _coup de grâce_. 

__________________

The day Irene Adler waltzed in and turned it all on its head had begun with Sherlock emerging from his room wrapped in nothing but a sheet, hair mussed as if he had just had a good rogering and mouth stretched obscenely wide in a yawn. He obviously spent the whole night engaged in diversions _other than_ sleeping. 

He informed John that he would be going alone to the scene of a crime out in the country that the detective deemed _unworthy of his presence_. He returned from his bedroom with John’s laptop and shoved the computer into his hand, telling him to take it so that they could communicate. John had quickly slammed the laptop shut upon glimpsing the porn site that was clearly on display, the movie frozen on the image of a rather burly blond driving into a skinny, pale and very male body from behind. 

The dread mixed with determination and anticipation as he recognized that their game was coming to a crescendo. Sherlock intended to make his final move _soon_ ; probably within the week. 

However, something shifted that day that they met Irene Adler. The games abruptly _stopped_. Sherlock withdrew leaving John on the brink, confused and unfulfilled in his quest to drag Sherlock down with him. 

He had at first taken the the sudden chilly demeanor as a new tactic, but it soon became clear it was a _full-on retreat._

At the time he'd considered that Irene was to blame. Having pursued John for long enough, a new interest had come along and the game moved elsewhere, leaving John behind _once again_. There was a bitterness in him for her interference. As he had been brutally cast out of the conflict and cut out from the army once he was wounded in Afghanistan, so too would this war leave him behind; irreparably damaged and ostracized. The lack of resolution to their war _must be_ due to her intrusion, and so he was intensely, irrationally angry at The Woman.

He felt abandoned. Frustrated. Betrayed. 

It was not the last nor nearly the worst time he would feel as much about Sherlock's treatment of him. 

First he withdrew, then he willingly plunged to his death. John was nearly dragged with him into the grave. He was plunged back into that dark, gray state of _nothingness_ that Sherlock had found him in where he became far too familiar with the feeling of sitting in a dark empty room with the weight of a gun in his hand.

It was not until the long, lonely hours after Sherlock jumped that John was able to push aside his own emotions and give himself over to objectively contemplating the reason for Sherlock’s change. He was left with more questions than answers and only a cold black grave stone to beg the truth from.

 _Had it been the experience of being on the receiving end of such manipulation for once?_ Sherlock had seemed flustered by Irene’s blatant efforts to seduce him. He had also been quite disparaging of her use of her intelligence in sexual games. He may have at last observed and comprehended how _not good_ it was to manipulate people in this manner

 _Perhaps Sherlock recognized too much of himself in the sexually manipulative, genius dominatrix?_ There had been a lost expression that John glimpsed in Sherlock’s eyes when Irene turned her attention on the ex-soldier. Sherlock had babbled like an idiot for a few seconds in an effort to get her to leave John be and return her attention to the detective's efforts to locate the phone. 

_Or had it been the moment Irene said, none too subtly, that John loved Sherlock?_ He had slid his eyes to John and looked, for a few heartbeats, as if he saw the doctor anew through her eyes; saw everything John did in this new, surprising context. Given Sherlock’s apparent aversion to all things emotional, perhaps the thought of John in love with him had caused revulsion in the self-proclaimed high-functioning sociopath.

John could not know for sure the reasons. All he knew was that he was left cracked, something near ruin. He was unable to return to what he had been but now had no way to remake himself in a new image - to become what Sherlock had worked so hard to make him become. The agony was found in existing between two states; not broken but far from whole, not alive and not dead. 

Bitterness is a paralytic and there was nothing quite so bitter as the cold and dark defeat of Sherlock lost to him. Sherlock had left him broken, hopeless and alone. He had left him wanting and needing that final surrender.

With one awful act of finality he had stolen from John his only chance at peace. 

_________________________

As John stands outside the door of 221B he lets the darkness of the starless night wrap around him and settle into his bones. He's been numb for so long that the sensation of it all flooding back through him is agonizing and intoxicating all at once. It is life being restored to a previously tourniqueted limb; nerves are firing in protest as the blood flow is restored and everything awakens to the agony of existence. He looks down at his knuckles still scraped and bruised from the beating he inflicted on Sherlock that evening. As much as he wants to walk away and forget he ever knew Sherlock Holmes he finds himself here, at 221B, the hour just past midnight

“You've missed this,” Sherlock had goaded with that sly smile pulling at his lips.

_God, Sherlock was right. His masochistic heart and his soldier's mind missed their war. It is a war that is apparently far from over._

It graded on John's every nerve. The whole evening was laced with Sherlock's flirtatious body language; the leaning in close, the way he fixed that heated, penetrating gaze on John, the showing off, the way he kept coming back to the mustache as if the state of John's upper lip impacted the detective personally. 

John _"Three Continents"_ Watson knows the signs of attraction - not that Sherlock had been being particularly subtle this time around. More than once John glanced at Mary to see if she was offended by the flagrant advances Sherlock made on him. She appeared oblivious; utterly entranced by Sherlock's commanding presence.

Body on top of Sherlock's, pinning and strangling him, it had been impossible not to feel the evidence of the other man's arousal. Sherlock's pupils blew wide and his breath grew more rapid every time John stepped closer. It wasn't fear in his eyes, it was eagerness and anticipation. Sherlock was inviting the physical altercations. It soon became clear that he wanted John's hands on him and John's body against him any way he could get it. Though he wasn't fighting back, he was doing all he could to provoke John. This only irritated and frustrated John all the more with the certainty that he was being manipulated. Even doing his best to hate and hurt the man seemed to give Sherlock exactly what he wanted. John was defeated even in his anger. True to form, Sherlock's death and his return was all another elaborate ruse of Sherlock's; proving John the fool once again. 

Between those more tense moments of struggle, Sherlock's eyes rarely strayed from John's lips. He kept running his fingers against his own lower lip and pulling them in to wet them. He was clearly telegraphing his intended move; a kiss. It was so infuriatingly and tempestuously familiar. John found himself re-immersed in that confusing haze of potent rage and arousal. He had wanted to be kissed by Sherlock... wanted the prick to _try_ anyways, because John had a bitter seething well of pain he'd been drinking from these past two years and he was more than ready to start giving Sherlock a taste of his own poison.

When Sherlock hadn't made his move, John had settled for a headbutt that drew a very satisfying crunch and blood from Sherlock's nose.

_The genius had obviously forgotten what battle with Captain John Watson is like._

When he'd left Sherlock standing on the sidewalk, bloodied and bruised, he'd wanted to believe that that could be the end of it. He was leaving Sherlock this time and that was the result he'd always aimed for. Yet, like the murdering cabbie knew of Sherlock, John now knows that that is not the result he _really_ cares about.

John clenches his hand into a first, the sting of the abraded skin pulling tight helping him focus. That bleak cauldron of emotions bubbles inside him. He has never been one to flinch in the face of truth; the truth here is that it may be masochism, just some warped need for self-destruction, but he can't move on until he finishes this war. 

Sherlock is relentless and will not stop until he leaves John with no ground to go to. He wants to break him and it is clear that, when it comes to John, Sherlock _always_ gets what he wants. 

Mary, _sweet Mary..._ she had pulled John out of the dark. She had been his strength and shelter. Because of her, and the potential of their future together, he had been just beginning to feel human again after the numb, hopelessness of Sherlock’s suicide threatened to destroy him completely. Unless John ends this game once and for all, it will only be a matter of time before Mary becomes a casualty of Sherlock's silent war as well.

The manipulative genius is well on his way to transforming her; setting her against John. Already Sherlock has corrupted the purity of what John had with Mary. He felt the change in her immediately after Sherlock's arrival. By the end of the night Mary and Sherlock were having a good laugh together over how much a fool John had made of himself with the mustache. Then, in the cab Mary had said she liked Sherlock and argued in favor of John seeing him again. She, who had known the state of devastation John was in over the man's death, thought John should just forgive and forget. It was the last straw for John. He'd known then that there that the relationship with Mary could only wither and die now, as all the others had when Sherlock touched them.

Sherlock will inevitably destroy their relationship. With his subversive methods, he will slowly undermine all of Mary's respect for John. He will expose all John's flaws; reveal him as foolish and unfit material for a husband. Sherlock will prey on her weaknesses, insecurities and secrets. He will make John dance and come at his beck and call and she will see that Sherlock is going to take John at any whim and loom over any future like a vulture, waiting for her to give up the fight.

John closes his eyes and lets his breath out slowly. He straightens his shoulders and puts on his battle face. He feels the calm slip over him. His hand stops shaking and his leg no longer aches.

Tonight, whatever the consequences, no matter the casualties, he is going to _finish this war._

He slips in his key, turns it and moves silently inside.


	2. First Shots Fired

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> > There are ugly, vicious things Sherlock awakens in him; a darkness that the wicked detective is forever trying to lure out to play. It is not a difficult thing to let it take him now. 
>> 
>> His thoughts are less formed and coherent ideas than raw, fierce, primal urges bubbling up and bursting with their dark imagery seething; infecting his system.
>> 
>> He wants those lips bright red and tender, stretched and pummeled relentlessly until they bleed at the corners. He wants all the delicate things about Sherlock broken, trampled and claimed. He wants all that is sharp and hard ground away, made smooth like a tumbled stone, relentlessly beaten until all the cutting edges are gone and it is easy to hold in the palm of his hand. 

John’s hand is steady as he quietly pushes the door closed and the lock clicks into place. His whole body is humming, a throttled engine waiting to be unleashed. He takes a deep breath, turns and steps into the sitting room. His eyes scan the shadows and in the dim light of a single lamp he finds Sherlock collapsed in his chair by the unlit fireplace. His body is sprawled and slumped in his carelessly elegant way, arms flung out, fingers dangling limply near the floor. His face is blank with unfocused eyes staring through John's empty chair. 

“I'm here,” John says, his voice low and harsh as he glares at Sherlock. A tightly controlled fury hangs on him like a dark cloak and he straightens his shoulders, naturally settling into a military parade rest; feet shoulder length apart and one hand clutching his wrist at the small of his back. There is a comforting muscle memory to it. His body is a weapon, held in check by force of will. It feels more natural than anything he has been pretending to be these last two years.

With a sharp inhale, silver eyes snap to John and the detective’s crumpled body immediately straightens. He rises smoothly to his feet. His face is unreadable.

“So, you are,” Sherlock observes, voice smooth and tinged with skepticism as if that fact were up for debate. His face is cast in shadow but John can feel the assessing gaze drag over him; weighing him. The tension throbs in the heavy air, enclosing the two of them and building like the pressure before a storm is unleashed.

The floorboards creak beneath the detective as he shifts, almost imperceptibly, onto his toes. He seems caught between two different reactions. He hesitates, his long fingers twitching idly against the tops of his thighs. 

“Right. Of course,” Sherlock says, abruptly launching into motion. He turns away and sweeps briskly through the room towards the wall with the yellow, bullet-hole riddled smiley face spray painted on it. His movements are grace and precision as he snatches up a file from the desk and continues across the room. 

As Sherlock pins pictures from the file to the wall, John tracks his every movement; a falcon watching a mouse scurry. Heat coils inside the ex-soldier as he observes the muscles moving under that tightly clinging fabric, obscenely tailored to fit him like a second skin. It could be _fury_ but if John is honest it is just as likely to be _arousal_ boiling inside him. When it comes to Sherlock, these emotions have now become so tightly intertwined that it hardly seems worth the effort to disentangle and define them. 

Hunger for blood… or for _more_? What does it matter? _Hunger is hunger after all._

Sherlock’s voice, deep and authoritative, is speaking quickly; urgently explaining something about _rats_ and _markers_. It is that same rapid-fire, breathtakingly incisive stream of mental acrobatics that always made a thrill well up in John, like bullets whizzing by his head. Spoken in that low, intense and intimate tone that never failed to invoke the impression of huddling in a bunker, alongside his commander, deciding upon strategies in the heat of the battle. It is a seductive siren’s call that hums across John’s skin, trying to press into his muscles and move him back into Sherlock's orbit.

He feels his defenses sliding away and his body relaxing in the breath before a strange, lurching wrongness creeps into his chest. His eyes sharpen on that once familiar form, scrutinizing him intensely. 

No one but John, so keenly familiar and necessarily studied on every gesture, idiosyncrasy and movement of his comrade, would notice the breaks in fluidity of motion subtly laced through his performance. There is tension evident in the small slips in his merciless self-discipline and in the slight hesitations in the way his body moves. Those extraneous flourishes of hands and sway of body are meant to hide and distract, like a magician trying to redirect the eyes of the audience. Noticing these faults breaks the spell and rips back the curtain of the entrancing illusion to expose the man behind it. 

Sherlock is returned, dangling the life they had, with its promise of danger and purpose, in front of the ex-soldier like he is taunting a starving dog with a scrap of poisoned meat. 

John’s whole body tenses with a sharp edge of irritation at the obvious ploy; a ruse to catch him up in the action again. The rage bubbles inside him with a renewed intensity; his muscles stiffening, his skin hardening into armor again. A deep growl rumbles from inside his chest; the ominous thunder of a barrage of bombs exploding in the distance that warns of approaching carnage. It seems to vibrate in the air. 

“No,” John barks sternly. Sherlock freezes, his long, lean frame in the middle of stretching to tac a photo below that demented, yellow grin. Words dying in his mouth as if the air has been stolen. 

“Not here for _that,_ ” John growls. Sherlock pivots slowly. His shoulders sink back as his eyes widen. 

John's stance is unmistakable; feet shoulder length apart, shoulders flexed and set in a firm line, fists clenched. His eyes are sharp and burning bright in challenge. He is ready for battle.

Sherlock draws himself up to his full height and his eyes deaden as he drops the folder to the sofa. His body language shifts; less sensual and flowing, more guarded and rigid. John welcomes the change. No more ruses or distractions. They will face each other man to man.

“Oh... _that,_ ” Sherlock says slowly in contrast to the quick, irritated flick of his wrist. His lips flatten, the corners pulling down in a hint of a grimace. He touches his nose and sniffs as his eyes cut away. 

His nose has stopped bleeding and been cleaned of the mess of fresh blood that colored his upper lip an hour earlier. The first purples and blues of a bruise over the bridge of the bony pyramid evidence the discomfort the detective must be experiencing. John tips his chin and narrows his eyes, visually assessing it with his medical eye. There is very little swelling and the paired nasal bones of the dorsum bridge appears straight. 

“Not broken,” he states flatly.

“Obviously,” Sherlock snaps, glaring at John. 

John clenches his jaw tighter and tips it up. Those light blue eyes slice into him, challenging and vicious, but the slight flinch before his reaction makes it more like a wounded animal lashing out. The weight of the air in the room feels heavier with the unspoken meaning in those words. 

Sherlock angles his shoulders away towards the windows overlooking Baker Street, devoid of life at this late hour. Making a clear effort to calm the mood, one hand slips into his trouser pocket in a poor facsimile of casualness, belying the tension thrumming in the air. The other hand brushes tentatively over his lips for, what seems to John, the hundredth time this evening. It's become something of a nervous tick for the man; done repetitively and unconsciously. John notices it, though. It needles at him, something between a threat and promise. That swelling in his chest is mostly anticipation now.

“No longer avoiding the nose, I see,” Sherlock says slowly, his words crisp and exaggerated. The verbal swipe lands like a blow to John's chest, making it harder to breathe. 

Irene’s damning words hang between them. She'd said John's failure to strike Sherlock in the nose had been a sign of his _love_ for the man. John flexes his hand at his side, as he looks down. 

He should have known the insensitive prick would go straight for the jugular; bring them right back around to the anti-climactic culmination of their war when Sherlock had chosen retreat instead of advancement; abandonment of John instead of conquest. 

John looks up at him from under his brow, eyes narrow and flickering with rage. He holds his body, eager to lay hands on his former companion again, in ironclad restraints. Sherlock is testing him. Feeling out his defenses. Poking fingers into wounds to see if he can make John flinch or flail or retreat. A grin begins to pull on John's lips. 

The genius detective really doesn't know. He is assessing where they stand and determining how much ground he has lost. The multiple wounds the ex-soldier inflicted this evening would seem to imply that John is free of the burden of love now.

It is a patently false assumption but the ex-soldier will not disabuse Sherlock of the notion that anything he once felt is dead. A bit of posturing can only improve his chances of surviving a fight where he is pitifully outgunned. 

John allows some of his raw savagery to show through his tight control. He rolls his shoulders in a shrug, fixing Sherlock with a smouldering gaze. His smile is a barely contained snarl; lips pulled taut over teeth, his chin tucked to his chest as his dark eyes look up at Sherlock. It is a primal and carnal _‘I will rip your throat out’_ stare and Sherlock’s eyes widen slightly as he shifts back on his heels. 

“Things change, Sherlock.” His voice is hollow and raspy. 

The name feels awkward in his mouth. _‘Sherlock.'_ He use to say it every day, dozens of times in every possible incarnation from exasperation to amusement. Then he had screamed it into the London sky as he watched that form dive towards the earth; a dark angel struck down in flight. He had spent every day since trying _not to_ say it; trying not to think it. It almost became forbidden. _Cursed._

Saying it now sends a little shiver up John's spine that fans into his chest. For a moment his mind stutters at the surrealness of standing before this man he grieved so deeply. John casts his eyes to the floor to try to orient himself, gather himself in and steady the shaking that is starting to worm its way back into his clenched frame. 

Sherlock does not miss this crack in the ex-soldier’s defenses. He makes a soft sound of thoughtful surprise and begins moving in slow measured steps toward John. It is so purposefully casual and deliberately non-threatening that it puts John in mind of a wildlife expert trying to approach a wounded beast. 

They can't go back now. There has been blood drawn and casualties. What _almost was_ is the shadow that has come to define John's every sunny day, insidiously stalking and clinging, holding him back with cold fingers of want and need.

He casually, moves away at a ninety degree angle from Sherlock’s approaching path. If Sherlock wants a good chase, he is at least going to do it on his own terms. 

John ambles towards the fireplace, glancing around to size up the battlefield, paying special mind to potential weapons. He watches Sherlock out of the corner of his eye as the detective pauses, studies his movements a few moments, then continues in a cautious pursuit of the ex-soldier.

“Won't you sit down, John?” Sherlock says, his eyes cutting to John's old chair. He is smiling slightly, his voice smooth like a knife slicing silk. 

John sniffs with a passing glance at the seat. He proceeds to the fireplace and watches Sherlock’s reflection approach from behind him through the mirror over the mantel.

“Mrs. Hudson?” John inquires. Sherlock stops a few paces from their seats and glances at the door.

“Out... She suffered quite a fright at my _reappearance_... Then a variety of… _other emotions._ ” Sherlock’s voice manages to interject those words with both confusion and disdain. “She went to her sister’s to stay the night and recuperate.” John hums and gives a sharp nod of understanding to the mirror. _Little chance of being disturbed then._

He watches Sherlock run that perceptive gaze over him again from foot to crown with something unmistakably predatory flickering within their depths. 

The hairs are standing up on the back of John’s neck. There is a thrill blazing along his skin at their dangerous dance. They are sizing each other up, feeling out defenses, welcoming the other to test their metal against each other's shields so they can evaluate and learn to anticipate moves and countermoves. His body settles into the familiar rhythm of it. He waits, his back offered in apparent vulnerability, an invitation for Sherlock to pounce. 

Sherlock’s hands slip into his pocket again and this time John can’t help but wonder if it is a measure of self-restraint because his jaw tenses and his lips thin, his teeth digging into his bottom lip. That heat in his eyes is barely restrained. 

_That is a change._

John runs a finger through the dust on the mantle thoughtfully.

“The dust level indicates the flat has been vacant over a year,” Sherlock states in his typical deductive tone. The floor creaks beneath him again as he carefully shifts his weight. “Though it was entered recently, by Mrs. Hudson and someone else - male. The size and pattern of the tread. The gait…” Sherlock does a fluid sweep of his hand, gazing down at some invisible markings on the floor. “Clearly military. Removed the skull, from _there_ on the mantle.” 

Sherlock takes a step forward so he is between their sitting chairs and gestures at a spot on the fireplace mantle where the dust has settled around the shape of a now absent skull. He hesitates only a moment, enough for the lack of John’s usual exclamations of praise for his deductions to be noticeable. 

“Will you sit?”

“What do you want, Sherlock?” John says flatly, shifting his weight. He watches in the mirror as Sherlock eyes flick to take in the slant of his hips before his lips purse slightly and he turns his face towards the kitchen, considering responses. 

John takes this opportunity to quietly palm the multi-tool knife that was stabbed through unopened letters to the mantlepiece the first day he visited this flat. He stealthily folds it and quickly slips it into the pocket of his trousers as Sherlock’s eyes are averted.

“I thought that was fairly obvious,” Sherlock says as his eyes slide sideways to John again. 

“Not to me,” John replies flatly. “What. Do. You. Want. Sherlock?”

“ _You_... to take a seat,” Sherlock says slowly with impatient irritation edging into his voice. He locks eyes with John through the mirror and slides his eyes towards his chair again as a directive. “Sit.”

John glances at the chair, his mind running through what value this strategic move might have for Sherlock. It could be used psychologically as a power play, exhibiting dominance. Or Sherlock could attempt to lower his defenses by creating a false sense of comfort; sitting in his own chair and evoking the memory of previous times spent there. 

One thing is for certain, if Sherlock wants him to sit _that badly_ , it is in his best interest to refuse. John straightens his shoulders and makes his eyes cold as steel as he glares back at Sherlock, his lips tipping in a humourless smile.

“Beg and roll over next?” John says in a voice that is a thick river of honey breaking around shards of anger. He watches Sherlock closely as the detective blanks his face in shielded contemplation. Then he cocks an eyebrow at John's back. A grin pulls up one corner of his mouth. It is reminiscent of the rare smile he used to give John when he was surprisingly amoral and unexpectedly clever, like when he pulled rank at the Baskerville base. 

“Have it your way,” Sherlock says with a flourish of his hand, dipping his head slightly in concession. 

“Oh, _I will,”_ John says in a smooth tone with a confident smirk. He turns and brushes past Sherlock heading towards the sofa. Sherlock stoically holds his position between the two chairs; hands clasped behind his back, body stiff and feet planted firmly. John can feel the strain in all Sherlock’s muscles at the contact of his shoulder against the taller man’s chest and the balance of force pressing back against his own. 

It's like some thrilling ancient ritual of stealing a touch to the enemy in battle. The intense buzz of electricity surges through John and tingles along all his nerves. 

Sherlock inhales deeply at the contact and John lets his eyes cut up to his face as he moves past. It is just long enough to glimpse a flicker of arousal swell Sherlock's pupils. 

_Christ, he is making this easy, isn’t he?_

John is beginning to form an understanding of the chink in Sherlock's armor; the hole in his defenses. The detective had always shown brutal, methodical patience in pursuing John before he left. He always managed to cloak himself in an air of indifference that made his demented game into something calculated and logical rather than personal. Sherlock may have been pursing John, but the ex-soldier could see it wasn't really about him, it was only war for the sake of war. 

Battle is generally an impersonal thing. Death doesn't have to be intimate at all. On the battlefield it rarely was. It's easier to abstract and dehumanize the enemy so you can take lives with no consideration or connection to what you are destroying. It stood to reason that in the end he was simply the spoils of war that Sherlock had been just as content to burn or abandon to ruin rather than collect. 

He had always felt there was something comfortably impersonal about Sherlock's cruelty... _until now_. 

Now, with Sherlock it is _entirely personal._

It became personal to John the moment he lost and Sherlock made him hurt Sarah. From that moment forward he had no qualms about what must be done... because Captain John Watson doesn't lose sleep when he delivers justice to people who _deserve it._

Sherlock hurts people. He manipulates them and destroys them from the inside out for fun. Force must be met with equal force. John's own destruction had been intimate and so the retaliation must be as well. 

And now it is clear that it is personal for Sherlock as well. There is nothing left of that cold indifference and uncaring brutality that seemed to be at the root of his previous random carnage. John doesn’t know exactly what Sherlock wants, but it is clear that the detective believes _only John_ can give it to him. There is more focus and raw desire in the way he studies John. It seems as if it is a need so intense that he simply cannot keep it sheilded

This is as personal as it gets. 

John knows what he must do. Sherlock's weakness is exposed now. It is _John._ Only John can move in close and make him feel. Only he can brake through his armor to plunge in the knife. He is halfway there already; under his skin, heating his blood. He is the only one that can possibly defeat the man... And, like wrapping Moriarty in that fatal embrace that night at the pool, John has no misgivings about what it will take to rid the world of this dark blight on humanity. 

“You've been watching me then?” John keeps his voice light. His cadence military, but with that swagger he uses when he’s squiffy and is sauntering up to take possession of some lovely lamb giving him the eye at a pub. He feels Sherlock start to move after him again, stalking him, prowling after him with a heat that feels tangible. John strolls towards the window, paying no mind to the predator on his trail.

“No.”

“The timing,” John pushes aside the curtain, his voice hard and cutting as he stares down at the empty street below. “Popping in as I propose… _Brilliant, that_.” Maximum devastation. A well timed blow; swooping in as John was emotionally exposed and teetering on the edge of release from Sherlock's hold. Hope crushed and joy tainted just as it began to emerge from its chrysalis. 

“I realize how it might appear. However, it was merely coincidental-” John tenses and looks sharply at Sherlock over his shoulder. 

“Aren’t you the one that has that saying about the universe and _coincidences?_ ” He interrupts harshly. Sherlock halts his approach, standing a few paces away by the sofa table. His eyes narrow and his teeth pull at his bottom lip as he looks away. 

“Rarely is the universe so lazy,” he intones with a slight nod. John hears a long breath gush out of Sherlock as realization dawns on his face. He brings his eyes back to John with one eyebrow raised. “Mycroft... He brought me back _now._ It was he who has been…” Sherlock trails off with a vague gesture towards John confirming that he was being watched. John snorts and shakes his head.

“Shit... Bastard... I apparently owe your _confidant_ a visit,” John growls. He glances up at the CCTV camera on Baker Street, currently pointed at 221. He gives it a rude gesture and slides the curtain shut violently. He stares at it a moment, his body bristling. 

“Mmmm… couldn't have you losing your pet…” John sneers as he glares at Sherlock with barely contained anger. 

Everyone in the whole goddamn world seems to want him in Sherlock’s bed or assume it already is so. Unbeknownst to him, the _‘British Government,’_ as Sherlock is fond of calling him, has been holding John under his thumb just to offer him up now on a silver platter. John’s hands fist at his side.

He turns to face Sherlock and looks him over carefully. They've been circling each other for long enough now. This is as good a place as any to engage. He puts his hands out a little from his waist, palms towards Sherlock, shoulders raised in question. 

“I’m here, Sherlock,” he says his expression clearly demanding to know why that is. Why Sherlock wants him here.

Sherlock nods. A dark cloud slips over his whole demeanor. When he moves towards John now it is a prowl; equal parts sensual and dangerous. 

“Yes, John. Why is that?” He asks in a silky baritone. “ _You_ came to _me_ , John. You want to be here… with _me_.” With slow, graceful steps Sherlock circles. He pauses and just breathes a moment, his eyes dark and full of unguarded, demanding want. 

“Not true, Sherlock,” John snarls. “You came after me. You want me here-” 

“Yes,” Sherlock interrupts, his voice deep and rumbling as he leans in. It is an instant heat. The danger buzzes along John’s nerve endings. “This is precisely where I want you, John.” John's body stiffens as Sherlock moves in closer, looming over him; hovering like some dark and ominous bird swooping in on its prey.

“Humans often find a sort of catharsis in violence,” Sherlock remarks, his tone almost bored, but his body tells a different story. He is breathing shallower and more rapidly. His eyes are half lidded but John can clearly see how his pupils have swelled to engulf the light blue of his irises.

“Is that what this is then,” John says with a bitterness seething in his every word. “Are we _healing_ here, Sherlock?” It is a rhetorical question. They both know there is little use pretending that _that_ is what is happening here.

“You’ve missed this. Missed _us_ …” Sherlock’s voice is suggestive, rolling down to him like a lazy caress 

Their faces are mere centimeters apart. John tilts his head to glare up at him. His shoulders are straight and his hands flex at his side as he stands his ground.

“There is no _us._ There never was an _us_ ,” John spits. He intends his voice to be sharp and cutting, to pierce Sherlock, instead it comes out bitter, charged with hurt and frustration.

There is a swift flurry of movement. John's back slams against the wall as hands cage his face. It’s not the lips against his, strong, firm and insistent, that disorients him, it is the tenderness in it, the slight tremble in the hand clutching his jaw and neck, the heat of the soft sigh of supple lips, like a breath too long held. 

John reflexively moves in to stake his claim, taking control of the kiss as Sherlock sinks a little against him. Long flingers move to his shoulders to cling to him like Sherlock is falling apart. For a moment John feels like he is drowning, unable to tell what is real anymore. His inner beast is roaring at the apparent victory, ready to conquer and claim and _take._ Then Sherlock's hands are pushing off his coat and John realizes it is only the illusion of control. 

_Only another ruse._

Of course the evil genius would have deduced what John likes. That surprise and soft pliancy when a lover surrenders bodily to John's considerable skill is a form of intoxication to the ex-soldier. 

_It was too easy. All too easy._

One minute they are kissing; John's lips hungry and demanding against Sherlock's that are soft and pliant, then in the next moment, with one precise and efficient move, Sherlock’s cheek is pressed against the wall beneath that demented smiley face. John is standing behind him holding the detective's right arm twisted up his back. He rests his full weight against the thinner man. Sherlock grunts but does not struggle. 

“Always forgetting I was a soldier, Sherlock,” John growls next to Sherlock's ear. 

“John,” Sherlock huffs in frustration. He is breathing roughly and his voice is heavy with a patronizing tone. "Don't be ridiculous." He tests John’s grip by twisting his wrist and pulling down, nearly freeing his hand. John tightens his grasp to bruisingly harsh and slams his shoulder against Sherlock's back. He is one good twist away from dislocating both Sherlock's elbow and shoulder. Sherlock hisses and squirms back into John to relieve the pressure. Then he is completely still. 

“Is that a multi-tool in your pocket or are you happy to see me, John?" Sherlock's voice is cool and calm but provocative, suggestive. 

“Both,” John growls pulling the knife from his pocket, flicking it open and pressing the blade to Sherlock’s throat.

“And what do you intend to do with it?” Sherlock breathes and John gets the distinct impression there is more excitement than fear in the detective for this turn in events. 

“Get some fuckin’ answers.” John presses the blade in a little and Sherlock inhales sharply and shifts. 

“I hope you don't mind, I took a _similar precaution?”_

John looks down and sees the glint of silver pressed against his abdomen. He slowly backs away releasing Sherlock. He expected nothing less from Sherlock. He was actually somewhat disappointed he'd gained the upper hand so easily. 

Sherlock turns towards John holding out the dagger-like letter opener in his left hand. He shakes out his right arm then transfers the weapon to his dominant hand. 

John’s tone is flat and his lips tilt in a taunting grin that matches Sherlock's. 

“And where _exactly_ were you hiding _that_.” He lets his eyes rake over Sherlock's tightly fitted clothes and tilts his head to the side. Sherlock grins. 

John folds the knife and extends his arm straight out to the side with the weapon clasped in it. His eyebrows lift, inviting Sherlock to disarm with him. Sherlock mirrors his gesture and drops his weapon first. John tosses the multi-tool aside, paying attention to where it lands by the leg of the couch. 

“You're right, John. We don't need _weapons_ to hurt each other,” he says clasping his hands behind his back and beginning to circle with slow, deliberate steps again. “Where's the _intimacy_ in that?" 

Sherlock swipes his tongue over his own lips slowly. They are pink already with the first hints of rawness. It sends a cold shiver over John's shoulders and down his spine and makes him throb down low and deep. 

There are ugly, vicious things Sherlock awakens in him; a darkness that the wicked detective is forever trying to lure out to play. It is not a difficult thing to let it take him now. 

His thoughts are less formed and coherent ideas than raw, fierce, primal urges bubbling up and bursting with their dark imagery seething; infecting his system. 

He wants those lips bright red and tender, stretched and pummeled relentlessly until they bleed at the corners. He wants all the delicate things about Sherlock broken, trampled and claimed. He wants all that is sharp and hard ground away, made smooth like a tumbled stone, relentlessly beaten until all the cutting edges are gone and it is easy to hold in the palm of his hand. 

John makes a show of wiping his mouth with the back of his hand and fixing Sherlock with a look of disgust. His own lips still tingle with the aftershock. His body is still warm with the press of Sherlock melting into him. The sweet pliancy. 

He _will_ have that again. _For real._ That and _more._

“You know, you never disappoint, John…” Sherlock says slowly unbuttoning his suit jacket. “You say you want answers and yet I gave you the opportunity to sit and talk... all the answers you may need... instead you pocketed a knife and attacked at the first opportunity.” Sherlock grins, stopping his circling. His eyes are blue flames; their heat challenging John to stop him from what he will do next. “What you _want_ ,” he says slowly shrugging his jacket off. “Is _not_ answers.” 

“And you are going to give me what I want.” It is more a statement than a question. John's eyebrows and tone lift slightly, inviting only agreement or submission. Sherlock tilts his head to the side. Predatory and curious at the same time, like a bird of prey assessing the potential of its next meal 

“Not at all, John. But I intend to give you precisely what you _need_.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm looking for a beta.  
> Up for it?  
> Inbox me on Tumblr: Breath4Soul.  
> Also, I welcome all companionship to keep my Johnlock fires burning!

**Author's Note:**

> _This was initially written as a chapter for[ **Everything That Falls Gets Broken**](http://archiveofourown.org/works/7185407). I realized it did not fit well and really deserved a story all of its own._
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> **Share with me your thoughts, please. Your Kudos and comments fuel my creative fire.**


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